It's about time to have your mind blown
courtesy of the refined drone
in a rhyme zone
my lines hone

i'm about to hit you with a sublime stone
you're not even in my time zone
i find clones
resigned moan

i'm the one who makes the slime known
from a velvet lined throne
the blind's shown
divine known

enough reality to make a mime groan
words from my mind's own
the sign's bone
design prone

We're locked in a race
And the only way to get out
Is by
Winning.

It's silent.
Stealthy.
Unspoken.
Secret.

There aren't rules
Or guidelines
Or officials.

The way it works
Is
Whoever kills themselves first
Wins.

That instinct
You have
When you're this depressed
And
Every time
You're in the
Stainless Steel kitchen
And your mom
Is stirring soup at the stove,
And a dribble of
Tomato basil
Slobbers down the side
Of the black pan.

And there's still
A knife out
From when
Tomato intestines
Sprawled across a cutting board,
Which is now in the
Soap-water sink.

You feel it,
In that second.
Instinct.
Need, really.
To take it
And slice open your wrists,
Or maybe just one,
If you're having a good day.

You seriously consider it.
It isn't just a thought.
It can
Scare you, really.

You want-
And one day, might need-
To pick up that knife
And do bad things.
Things that good girls
Wouldn't dream of.

But you don't do it,
And you won't do it,
Because your mom is right there
Stirring soup
And ignoring tomato drool.

And it's such short notice,
You haven't written your note yet.